A story called Nausitalia DISCONTINUED
by Simple Tactic
Summary: After sleeping for many years, the countries wake up to find their world has changed. Without their original forms to keep them from disappearing, the former nations must adapt to this new world, lest they vanish from existence.   *DISCONTINUED*
1. Prolouge

Nausitalia crossover 

A crossover between Nausicaa of the Valley of Wind and Hetalia Axis Powers

Note: Proof-read, but not very well. Looking for a beta, any and all help appreciated.

Reviews are nice, but Critiques are jewels. If you have any, please mention them, since I'm very unsure about the pacing, description and flow of my story.

This fanfiction is based off of the Nausicaa Manga and Hetalia Webcomics, but takes place in the Nausicaa world. If you have not read the entirety of the Nausicaa series, please be aware that are major spoilers of the ending, especially in this prologue. I recommend that you read the Nausicaa manga first, however if you have no intention of doing so ever then you can continue if you want. But still, read it, because it was written by Hayao Miyazaki and it's considered a masterpiece of _literature. _

There is a light, in the middle of which _it _stands, beckoning us forward. We do not ask it what it wants, for God probes through the light-mind and gives the answer before the question; we are it's prophets, and we come forth to speak the thousand-year tale of life after death, of purity that arises from corruption.

We are gathered here once more, to educate a group of four, A king, A fool, A soldier, and _her. _

We emerge from the beating Heart in a dazzling illumination, the spectators apart from the main audience turn away but _she _merely lowers her cloth mouthpiece and returns to our entrance a fiery glare.

We seem to take no notice and begin our speech, we ask for an apology to our rashness of a sudden entry, then we speak of purification, of the great cleansing- we died for our own faults, and you, the offspring of those who lived through that period of dread and woe are being put up to pay the price of our folly, and we shall continue with the sacrifice till the day comes when a new Eden rises and new Adam's and Eve's are sent forth by God to repopulate, It will give into their arms and minds the ancient wisdom of times long past and they will construct from those ideals and knowledge a new world, a new civilization, and then, it will be paradise at last.

But now, it is but a dream, so we ask you, children, Daughter, help us, help us to see through to that end, help us so that the light is not put out, so that paradise is found and Man once more stands as it once did...

Yet you say No, Daughter. You defy us, label our existence as "shadows", as mere dangling specters, intangible and bound and incapable of any self-willed action.

Too an extent, you speak the truth.

We have no hands with which to stop you as you charge forth through our luminous beings to prove the validity of your words, no mouths to protest as you place your palm against the surface of the Heart, no legs on which we can run so as to escape God's grasp as it pulls us back into itself, as we dissipate and hear the servants cry out in horror and awe at your ability and achievement.

We arrive once more within our adobe, as the Master pushes us aside and prepares to travel out by itself to confront the Girl.

_Lies! _Her words rebound through the flesh walls, _Lies! _They seem to scream, and though she does not directly say so that aching word is what describes this all to a T. _All you speak are lies, Mechanical Monstrosity! Speak the Truth! There is no such need for a being such as yourself!_

God is angry, and changes rapidly from a supposed Divinity into an arched cobra who spits light venom onto it's surroundings, who collapses down and slithers outward amongst it's own poison and catches an unknowing victim in it's lock-jaw grasp.

The Fool is the unsuspecting catch, and God conceals his face with it's own, as a conscious mask.

We are left behind, God in it's anger forgetting to send us back into slumber. So we press ourselves against the walls of our encasement, listening and watching through the character-pores of the Heart-machine, bearing witness to the heated argument between the Angel and God, A verbal battle in which opposing ideals and philosophies are clashed one against the other in an attempt to prove it's superiority.

God spoke of the horrors of the past, of old days filled with fear and anguish, where man was pitted against man, technology and nature in order to have even a faint glimmer of hope in clutching onto the slipping hand of life. And so came God, to aid Man in breaking apart the great cloud of despair, by bringing forth Arbiters of Death and a Forest of Corruption thereafter, with promises of pure lands yet to come.

The Angel seems to agree, but claims that when it comes down to the understanding of life we are wrong. We believe that from the end of the Corrupted Sea will purity emerge, but she says such thinking is flawed and that the sins and woes of humanity will not vanish in Paradise. Because there are sorrows, there can also be joy. But God, she argues, will never know such joy, because as a _machine_ built upon the ideal of purity vs. corruption it will only follow such an ideal and never be able to process the other.

We press evermore closer to the walls as the Master begins to grow evermore enraged. It claims such thinking was accounted and prepared for, that without itself man will not be able to walk onto the Pure Lands, and they will collapse spewing blood from their lungs. There will be no further future from that point. The Angel counters, stating that such things is not for a being like it to decide. God is taken back and spews out it's own reasoning, that it is Light, the Shining light, the Angel stills finds it's way around, claims that without darkness, there is no light, and for that the incomplete Light will have to return into the darkness. We catch glances at each other, worried expressions, before returning to the spectacle.

A few more comments and God returns, indifferent towards us, powerful, concentrated light pouring out of it and the Heart. We begin to feel the faintest glimmers of fright, a feeling so long unseen it seemed almost new. God sends out vicious beams, attempts to destroy the minds of it's enemies, the Angel, but is stopped by a new-come spirit. Our worried expressions grow into gaps and shocks, God tenses, yet an explosion interrupts us all and the Master screams in pain, a black streak cuts upon it.

Such a quick unfolding of events leaves us dumbfounded as the pain extends to us well, a small black streak making it's way horizontally across our backs. We begin to panic- is this the end? It seems so.

To make the chances ever smaller we hear the Angel cry out to her Child, the God-Warrior, once, twice, again. We feel it squirm, responding, and wait in wide-eyed anticipation for Death to come pounding upon the walls of the Crypt.

_Blam._

We sense something rip open, God screams and cries in pain, and as four more black streaks appear upon our torsos it begs the Girl, the Child of Darkness, to stop, to not go down in history as an destroyer. She turns away from it's pleadings, she does not need it, for it is not truly God, as the real God inhabits even the tiniest particle of Nature.

On the command of the Angel, or the Devil, whichever now seems more fit, the Warrior sends another, far more powerful blast and the Artificial God screams. The streaks become prominent, dark, skeletal fingers without any solid form, ones that drag us into a dark abyss, we find ourselves fighting it.

A long, long time ago we had sealed ourselves into the Master, in order to evade Death, for a being that does not live cannot know what it is to die. And yet here it appears, a skeletal face staring from behind our shoulders, dragging us away.

We see other forms taken away, small, curled, incomplete forms in the bony arms of miniscule skeletons, and we panic even more- the eggs of the Crypt; those Adam's and Eve's that we spoke of, they were dying by the dozens. But what of ourselves? We were also one of those; have we been taken away as well? We do not see them, so is there perhaps a chance? Perhaps, but it is unbeknown to us.

But please, we beg, please do not take them, they had not crushed underfoot the Earth, they had not taken her depleted form and cut her upon, then lazily, later desperately tried to reconstruct her. It was not their fault that man was forced to undergo the change to adapt to a new world, it was not the cause of their workings that puts forth the lives of innocent and good men and women to pay the price of compensation for our wrongs. It is us, we understand for we stop fighting, we allow to be taken away and consumed whole by darkness, but please, as a final boon, give them the chance to live again.

I am one of the last to leave this life as the Warrior extends it's hand, grabs the Heart and crushes it. And as I am led away, as my limbs and body disappears, I cannot help but think of old days of happiness and discovery, where I stayed with my two great friends and often cowered behind them. It lifts the last of my feelings, and I hope that wherever I am going I may just as well find some Pasta.


	2. The Rabbit's Calamity

_Beta Credit: Thanks to Naomi Hansen for her time and knowledge_

Italy had always known darkness.

Kept in the dark, cradled in the dark, the darkness of cowardice was his most faithful companion. How many times had he fled into the shadows? Such a thing was uncountable. Why, for such a care-free, luminous man, did darkness form after him a tail?

Perhaps we should begin with the very start. Little Italy was born as the second child to his mother, who was the daughter of the Great Roman Empire*. Her existence was, however, severely limited by the rate of which her children aged, and she vanished as her second son sprouted, only by an inch in his growth, leaving him in the strong but fading arms of his grandfather, Rome.

Here in this time, he uncovered many things about himself: His aesthetic gifts, most prominently, the ability to take from colors with brushes onto a canvas; to weave wear of the most beautiful designs; to farm a pasture of many shades; and where the ground failed to produce there, he erected great monuments. His country was glorious, prosperous, it could be said that he was even handsome. But what he had in beauty, ultimately, he lacked in warfare.

Perhaps, perhaps it was that he grew and learned in the shadows of his mother's father, whose strong being bore, as the child's shield, the great storm of calamities, of brewing battles, of all kinds of wars, out on the border lands, in the political halls, on the lines dividing neighbors. Little Italy could only watch from behind the shining armor, turning but one fearful eye, taking everything into theory, rarely moving into practice. To perform means to perfect. Italy barely budged in such a dangerous direction, over such an hideous art. True, he knew how to hold an bow and its arrow, how to wield a sword, to point a firearm. But whether or not he would have the gall to strike was an entirely different matter.

He remained for his younger years in the absent light that fell off of his paternal mentor's solid, pillar-like form, never daring to step out of this dark enclosure. Light shown on the outer edges; it was beautiful but harsh light, the light that fell from the sun and landed on the terrain that was Earth. It gave the Earth her colors, her awakening. It drove some mad, forced evil spirits into hiding and gave good men a new day, a new chance for their lives.

But was it always like this? It is far easier to see and kill when it is luminous then when it is not. Men war in the day. At night the living retire.  
The dead had died underneath a bright sky. Evil, most prominently in beating black hearts, perform their work when the eye sees its prey and its want. In the days did men come together and decide the further movement of their lives, of lives that were not theirs, of lives they did not and never would know, of lives that could oh so easily be plunged into misery with but one word out of a high officials mouth. Such a light Little Italy did not favor, did not understand. The Light of Truth held too much horrors, and his weak, fragile little infancy could not withstand it, or so he thought. How great are the consequences of such thinking.

He found it for the better that his grandfather, well-hardened and experienced, bear the brunt of the world's woes. But as each protection carries a price, Little Italy found he would surrender most of his wartime aggression, instinct of fight. It so happened.

As every pillar wears with age, so did Rome. Eventually, he could no longer stand strong as he once did, the Light beginning to pierce through this crumbling man. It fell in small spots, some showered onto the frightened Italy, others rid the shadow of its darkness, which did little more then add onto the growing fear and despair that the pitiful Italy felt at that time.

And then, all at once, like a child birthed into the light from their mother's womb, Rome's collapse had come to its final end, and there was Little Italia left to stand, his head lowered and wet, blurry, up-cast brown irises scanning the surroundings through wild locks of hair that veiled his downcast face. His small fists held onto his attire as though it would act as his next barrier between himself and the world he had heard and seen to so merciless, so pitiless. Poor Little Italy, bathed in the light he oh-so feared, unable to hide in his own shadow, his heart distraught with the passing of his mentor and with the fear of his own safety. He had only from his grandfather given to him his legacy, his teachings, his work, and a single cross he carried around his neck and clutched with vigor whenever he felt fearful, as though through this small contact, with molded gold and his bare skin somehow he would, through God and Heaven, reach his grandfather, feel that gentle touch of his like it used to feel upon his hair in his earlier youth, hear his laugh like in the better days, feel that familiar scent that told him that all he ever truly cared for, that the one he loved as a child to a parent, was near and with him. He never did.

All in all, he was now alone. He was a rabbit, orphaned at birth, found by good hands, fed and kept and loved till Death parted the two, and now thrown away into winter woods, where starving wolves waited with steady eyes in the bushes, behind the bare trees, in the tall shrubbery, salivating, waiting, teeth and claws bared, ready to be painted red in their hunger-lust, waiting for the feel of the shivering rabbit's fur against their lips, its fed, plump flesh upon their tongues, the crack of its bones by their teeth. For the rabbit may flee if it knew for sure of the impending hazards, they waited to keep it in the dark, staring into the dark, in the place of learned reflexes there was only dark.

Oh, how wrenching this scene is. It has nowhere to go, the door behind is firmly shut, and it fears the darkness of pain, the darkness of death, the darkness of the wolves fur as it lunges onto the rabbit's neck.

It is alone. Poor Italy, he is alone.

Now, I cannot say that he was truly all alone, then. That would be inaccurate.

He had an elder brother who lived in the Southern lands in his grandfathers old home. And there were more brothers, accompanied by unrelated strangers, living just over the territory lines. Apart from his southern brother, he hardly knew the others: Rome had taken him away from them and placed him under his brazen wing near birth. Now left to fend alone, he had little - if any - idea about his next action. Diplomacy? He was not a formidable speaker. War? Better to spend a night buried alive within the mantle. Politics? Perhaps, but what is that glint in their eyes that make him so uneasy whenever he approaches them? Why does the rabbit fear the worse hiding in the forest before him? We all fear what we do not know, and Italy did not know the thoughts of his brothers. The rabbit did not know the presence of the wolves, but the suspense that hung from the atmosphere like a heavy curtain dropped onto a unlucky man made the speculation all the more worse to put up with.

The truth was this: The rabbit was alone, round and full. The wolves were hungry, no, starving. The winds and foul weather of winter robbed them of their usual prey. Ah, but there was a feast waiting in the snow, domestic, tamed and weak. It could not rely on itself, it needed somebody, anybody - someone strong, great and powerful to shield it from the cold, biting breezes and the warm, famished breathes. It needed a hand between it and the world - a corpse's wouldn't do. This the wolves understood. From this the wolves saw their chance. The wait would end very soon.

Italy was beautiful. The brothers knew this. He had glorious art, fertile farms, the architecture was to awe at. They wanted it. They needed it, this radiant shine upon dull mankind, and to seize it - ah, that was easy.

_Little brother, come here_, they cooed, sing-song, their voices high and cheery and false. _We won't hurt you, we won't hurt you_, spoke rounded faces and shimmering eyes and broad pseudo-smiles. D_on't be afraid, and yet, be _very _afraid..._

The rabbit budged forward. A wolf shifted. It took notice and ran. But far it did not venture.

As soon as their prey lunged away, the wolves jumped from the thickets with their jaws impaling the weakling's hide in remarkable speed.

They tore at him, those relentless wolves. They ripped open his skin and pierced his muscles and cracked his bones. Its blood, its blood of the darkest crimson, spilled out in massive droplets, soaking the ground, tainting the snow, painting the wolves the color of war. What a color it was that they displayed. The color of all that is cruel, of all that shows no pity, knows no sympathy, acts upon the benefit of the murderer and laughs at the desecrated form of the murdered. It spills in pools. Pools turn to trickles, trickles to streams, streams to rivers, and dark rivers flowed down paved walks over the face of sovereignty, robbing it alongside innocence, and as metal drank and drank and dripped what it could not contain it squashed beneath it hope. And the child, plunging both into darkened oblivion even as the metal turned upwards and fell upon an opposition, as two wolves snarled and clawed at each other over the limp form in a pool of its own, they did not even take care not to step onto the exhausted being beneath.

So Italy suffered not only a battle against him, but a battle against everyone else over his person. Already thrust into the looming shadow of Ares - whereas the latter had above him raised a sword of bloodied bronze - he also found himself within the mighty silhouette of Odin, who threw his spears over heads unknown.

_Please_, he begged these two gods, who reveled within the might and power, grief and murder of war, _lift these tragedies of mine, these tragedies above my people. From the men in the red fields, the men with the harsh labors, their wives at their sides, their starving children working, lifting,_  
_pulling, their bodies exhausted, their limbs red and weak, crying from the pain of toil and the despair of death. They stand in rags, every age, rubbing watering eyes to avoid the cold gazes and sneers of parading soldiers with torn banners held high and proud._

_Please_, his high-pitched voice elevated to a near scream. _Please!_ Repeated the desperate child, his clothing torn and drenched and his face blackened with the ash and soot of all consuming flame.

Blood pools collapsed from his wounds. Odin threw one more spear.

And the two battle deities vanished.

The rabbit, who could sense no longer, did not take notice as the victorious wolf picked up by the scruff the frozen flesh from its spot where the blood had soaked the snow. And where it could not, little pools remained. All such a horrific reminder of what had come to be and passed. The wolf swung around the win in its jaw, flaunting it's trophy before the defeated who stared with luminous yellow eyes on their perches behind the brush on the sides of the victors path, their mouths and their stomachs growling; at the winner, at themselves, at the facts that in the place of a bloody feast they bore many a bloodied wound.

But here the rabbit did not see the glowing eyes of the inferiors: here he was wrapped within the safest haven of black unconsciousness, where the light did not shine - all was comforting darkness.

Austria pulled the Child Italy into his impressive adobe, where he was to be a chained servant in the light of day. Taking upon himself the broom and the dust-pan, he would stare out and onto the sun rays through the giant windows as they illuminated the vast rooms, the nature outside, and he knew that in this waking light he was the horse that pulled the gears of the ever-turning windmill, and if he should rest when not desired, there came the crack and sting of the whip. His desires were not accounted, his pleas often fell onto deaf ears. Thus to the darkness of solitude did he run, for though he may not always find what he sought there he would at the very least be by himself, where the most prominent of dangers and grieves would not reach him, where for the moments he can relax within the dark corners of his mind. There they could not reach him, at least for then.

Centuries flew like the seeds of dandelions in a bellowing breeze. So much had happened, so much had came, occurred and left. I cannot describe it all to you; even the most famous of lives are not recorded by the exact minute. Neither do I know what went on with the anthropomorphic Italian throughout his prolonged lifespan apart from what is written within the pages of thick novels and encyclopedias, and even there within those binds is quite a considerable amount.

But to explain even these events, this history of a man and a country, would be in excess. I believe that I have succeeded in informing you of this peculiar relationship between Italy and his lover, Where No Light Shone, from the near start of his tale upon this Earth. And now, it would be wise to put olden history to rest, for quite a while into this story it would not be mentioned again.

But the darkness - should I put it to rest as well? Nay, quite the opposite - Italy rested within the darkness, a comforting darkness, as though a strange cooling blanket wrapped him whole and held him as such.

Had he been dreaming? Was he still dreaming? His muscles refused and his feelings had grown numb with his limbs, but his consciousness was regaining it's awakening. Where was he? Could he escape? Did he want to leave? The darkness, the stillness, it is so peaceful and wonderful. Yes, he felt himself alone, but for how many times did he shiver alone in the shadows when he ran from adversity? He had grown used to the solitude.

It was brilliant, this emotion of serenity, this emotion of hanging suspended where no one can reach you and force you into action. Italy loved basking within this mood, as a youth would in the ocean on a perfect summer day. Oh, why did he wrap himself in such feelings? He knew how the future could come so rapidly and hit so forcefully without even the slightest warning. But absent-minded as he is, it is no wonder he often ignores this most crucial fact. Listen you to me, as Italy is about to discover, it is most unwise to believe in the good of the future when the future is a possibility residing within the sign of infinity. This possibility knows all ways, may recall every path. It is good, it is bad, it is neutral. Never become fond of often preaching about good days yet to come, such is a set-up for great disappointment.

Something creaked, faintly, far. Italy could not respond, for he was a man bound in soft cotton, but his mind raced at this gun shot and his heart began to pound at this sudden interruption of his joy and ecstasy.

There it came again, only louder and nearer. His ears began to pick up noises, strange garbled sounds from beyond the exterior of wherever it was that he resided within. The noises piked up at times, then they were lower, once again higher. Sometimes they ceased altogether and began again after random intervals. It seemed to him that these sounds were a language, a method of communication, a manner of speech. He cannot hear them so clearly as to verify his opinions, but judging by the way the vibrations came and went, his doubts were decreasing ever steadily.

Within a few seconds his doubts were given another very good hit downwards when whatever it were that produced the waves began to yell and roar and scream and shout, the exclamations rebounding amongst each other. They were loud and piercing, as though the screeches were being emitted right beside him. How loud these shrieks were, they rattled the ears so. Italy, who could never bear high sounds, shifted to the best of his ability to veil his lobes, causing his weakly responding arms to move upwards ever so slightly - they were still in slumber.

But it gave enough of a feeling for Italy to detect the faint presence of a foreign material inserted into his skin. Of _what_ he did not know. All he could tell was that it was an odd, uncomfortable sensation. He tried to open his eyes to possibly view the object, but as soon as he opened them, even by a small slight, he was forced to immediately shut them as a strange liquid glazed over his cornea and began to sting with much intensity. He tried to rub his eyes, but alas there were two cases that prevented him; One being that rubbing one's eyes while surrounded by irritating water would do more harm then good. Two being that he could still hardly move.

The sounds had stopped, then began again, this time cautiously, slowly, as though questioning. Had they seen the small movements? It seemed to be such. Italy - who had relaxed again, seeing as it was useless to really do anything - shifted into rest once more, noting that wherever he was suspended the temperature was slowly decreasing. This told him several things: That his sensory nerves were reviving at an even faster pace, and that his peace had surely come to a end. How pitiful was the last remark to the trapped Italian, for he knew that if his environment was changing, he had to move away from it, and the meant running into dangers unknown.

This caused a panic to build up inside of him, a mighty fear of leaving the safety of ignorant, calm darkness and entering the blindingly bright light, its knowledge and horrors fully exposed. Pan joyfully trotted up and down his spine, who was later joined by fellows when the country felt the whole enclosure be lifted and carried, slightly shaking with every movement. Where was he to go? Who had stumbled upon him? Why was he even here? Endless questions will lead to endless answers. As the heart pounds, the mind races, and such a race leads into the abyss of all that is terrifying. The mind does not stop. It is far to frightened. And when it falls over does fear erupt like a volcano with morbid thoughts of murder and mutilation, suspense and strangeness, despair and danger.

For the sedated rabbit brought out of its cage will at first glance not know the mighty forest before it, it will see the unknown and fear what it cannot understand, and it shall not sight the angel atop the arthropod.


End file.
